Page 4 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

“Mistress Agnes,” he barked as he ducked through the doorway. “I’ve need of ye.”

The scent hit Gabriella first—herbs and tinctures, honey and cloves. Nothing like the stench of their prison.

A woman appeared from behind a curtain, gray-haired and straight-backed. Her keen eyes took in Gabriella in one sweep.

“Put her there,” she directed, pointing to a cot near a small fireplace.

The Laird laid Gabriella down with surprising gentleness. Mistress Agnes moved forward, her hands already reaching for her face.

“What happened to this poor lass?” she asked, tilting her head so she could examine a cut on her cheek.

“She was held captive,” the Laird replied, his voice tight. “Starved. Hunted.”

The healer’s expression darkened. “Hunted? What the devil’s game is that, huntin’ humans? I hope ye gave them what they deserve.”

“Nae yet, but I will. This lass is one of four we rescued today.”

Gabriella’s mind struggled to make sense of his words. This wasn’t a man who’d participated in a hunt for sport. Did he really mean it then, when he said he wanted to help her?

“She needs food. Proper rest. And these wounds need tendin’.” Mistress Agnes was already reaching for a bowl of water.

The Laird stood back, his large frame filling the room as the healer began to clean her injuries. Gabriella flinched when the cloth touched a particularly raw scrape on her arm.

“Gently,” he growled, his eyes fixed on the healer’s hands.

“I ken me business, Me Laird,” she replied tartly, though her touch did soften. “Ye neednae hover like a maither hen.”

Gabriella almost smiled at that. She couldn’t imagine anybody, even an older woman, speaking so bluntly to the master of the castle. It didn’t fit with anything she’d learned of lairds in her years at the tavern. Or the air of strength and authority she’d noticed in him.

As the healer worked, Gabriella studied him from beneath lowered lashes. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark with barely contained fury as each new injury was revealed. But that fury wasn’t directed at her. Instead, he seemed… protective.

Mistress Agnes clucked her tongue. “Starved half to death, ye are. Look at yer arms, naught but bone.” She shot the Laird a pointed look, then glanced back at Gabriella. “When did ye last eat?”

“Yesterday. I had some bread,” Gabriella admitted haltingly.

“I’ll have a meal prepared for her. But she’ll have broth first. Strong food would make her sick.”

Gabriella glanced up, surprised. Most men she’d known wouldn’t begin to care about such things.

“The lass has cuts everywhere,” the healer continued, examining her feet. “And these ankles—rubbed raw from rope.” She looked up at Gabriella with kind eyes. “Who did this to ye, child?”

The Laird spoke before Gabriella could gather the strength to answer. “She doesnae need to relive it now. Just tend to her wounds.”

“What’s yer name, lass?” Mistress Agnes asked as she cleaned a particularly nasty cut on Gabriella’s thigh.

“Gabriella,” Gabriella whispered, wincing slightly. “Gabriella Patterson.”

The Laird, who had been pacing near the doorway, stopped when she said her name.

“Ye can leave now, Me Laird.” Mistress Agnes’s tone was firm. “I need to check the rest of her, and she’ll want privacy.”

To Gabriella’s surprise, he nodded. “I’ll have a chamber prepared.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “And Mistress Agnes… she’s to have the best care.”

The healer snorted. “As if I’d give any less.”

When he was gone, she helped Gabriella remove her filthy dress, covering her with a large wrap. Her practiced hands were quick and clinical as she examined the rest of her body. Gabriella tried not to flinch, tried not to remember other hands that had been far less gentle.

“Ye’re lucky, lass,” the healer whispered. “Nay broken bones, though ye’re bruised somethin’ fierce.”

Lucky.

The word felt so inappropriate that Gabriella nearly laughed.

“Why is he doin’ this?” she whispered. “Why bring me to a healer?”

Mistress Agnes’s eyebrows rose. “Because ye need healin’.”

“But I’m his… Am I nae his prize? Why show me any kindness?” Gabriella could barely force the word out.

Understanding dawned in the healer’s eyes.

“Ah, lass. Ye dinnae understand what happened today, do ye?” She rubbed sweet-smelling salve on Gabriella’s raw ankles.

“Our Laird wasnae huntin’ ye. He was huntin’ the hunters.

But for some strange reason, he wanted ye here after he saved ye, and here ye are. ”

Gabriella stared at her, not quite able to comprehend her words. The idea was too foreign, too contradictory to everything she’d come to believe about men with power.

Finally, she whispered, “I don’t understand.”

Mistress Agnes continued her work, spreading the salve across Gabriella’s bruised skin. “Laird McCulloch has been trackin’ these devils for nearly a year now. Ever since he heard whispers of lasses disappearin’ from the villages.”

She might have said more, but the door opened, and a young maid entered, carrying a steaming bowl. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of Gabriella, then quickly lowered.

“The broth, Mistress,” she said, setting it down on a small table.

“Good,” the healer replied. “Now, fetch clean linens and a dress. Somethin’ simple but warm.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried out.

“Can ye sit?” Mistress Agnes asked, helping Gabriella to a more upright position. “Ye need somethin’ in yer belly.”

The broth was light but fragrant with herbs and a hint of meat. Gabriella’s first instinct was to gulp it down—her stomach had been cramping with hunger for months—but the healer’s firm hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Slowly now. Small sips. Too much at once and ye’ll bring it all back up.”

It took all her willpower to follow the instructions, but Gabriella managed. Each careful sip seemed to bring life back to her limbs as warmth spread from her center outward.

She had just finished half the bowl when the door opened again. Laird McCulloch filled the frame, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides, but he did not enter.

“How is she?” he asked Mistress Agnes, his eyes never leaving Gabriella.

“Malnourished. Exhausted. But nay permanent damage, I think. The lass is stronger than she looks.”

“Good,” he muttered, though his expression remained unreadable. “Yer chamber is ready. Ye need to rest.”

The maid returned with a bundle of fabric—a simple dress of deep blue wool and fresh undergarments. Laird McCulloch slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mistress Agnes helped Gabriella change behind a screen, the clean fabric feeling like heaven against her skin. She’d never worn anything so fine in her entire life. She owned two simple dresses that had been bought for their durability rather than comfort.

“I’ve mixed a draught for the pain,” the healer said, pressing a small vial into Gabriella’s hand. “Take it before ye sleep.”

When they emerged, Laird McCulloch was back in the room, waiting. Without a word, he stepped forward and scooped Gabriella into his arms again.

“I can walk,” she protested. Though, in truth, she wasn’t sure she could.

“Dinnae argue, lass,” he replied gruffly, carrying her out of the healer’s cottage and toward the main keep.

The castle’s interior was warmer than she had expected, with tapestries lining the stone walls and torches casting a golden glow over the corridors. Servants paused and bowed as they passed, their curious gazes following Gabriella.

They climbed a spiral staircase to the upper floor. The Laird’s breathing remained steady despite the climb and her weight in his arms.

Gabriella found herself studying his profile as he carried her, painfully aware of the strength in his chest where her shoulder pressed against him. There was something about him that kept stirring her emotions, despite her determination to remain wary.

Now that she could see clearer, she noticed the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and a small scar near his temple that her fingers itched to trace. He had a strength and intensity that something in her responded to, even though she didn’t want to.

He paused in front of a wooden door, which opened into a chamber larger than the tavern where she’d worked. Gabriella had not known that people lived in rooms this large.

A fire blazed in the hearth, warming the space. A wooden bed draped in thick furs stood against one wall, a small table and chairs sat near the window, and a chest lay at the foot of the bed.

Her gaze fell to his mouth, wondering how those firm lips would feel against her own.

The thought shocked her, yet she couldn’t banish the image of him lowering her onto the furs of his bed rather than simply tending to her wounds.

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she looked away, disturbed by her body’s betrayal after months of fearing men’s touch.

He set her down on the edge of the bed. “These are yer quarters now,” he said, taking a step back. “Ye’re safe here. Nay one will be able to hurt ye in me home, lass. Ye can do whatever yer heart fancies.”

Gabriella looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. “What do ye mean? I thought—I still dinnae understand, Laird McCulloch.” She swallowed hard. “Am I nae yer bed slave?”

Genuine disgust crossed the Laird’s features. “Nay. I caught ye to save ye.” His voice lost some of its edge. “Every lass taken from that place today is free. None of ye will face the fate intended for ye.”

Her fingernails dug into her palms, a strange hollowness replacing the fear she’d carried for months. She couldn’t name this feeling—this odd mixture of relief and something that felt absurdly like disappointment—as though a door she hadn’t known she wanted open had been firmly shut instead.

“Then I can leave? Right now?” she asked warily, even as her mind raced to consider where she might go with no coin, no shelter, and barely enough strength to stand.